Translations from the Elvish
by JKScowling
Summary: Tauriel chases a ghost, uncovers truths in mirrors, drinks a bit too much wine, and performs alchemy with bones and starlight. Dark humor, eventual horror, adventure, and the romance that keeps on pining.


A/N: I don't own shite.

**Chapter One: The Thin Gray Line**

In the end, she buried a box. Burial customs were not something highly regarded by elves, but there was something about Kili's body being laid to rest in stone at Erebor that had made her feel naseous. She was of the earth, and needed, she believed, for her own peace, to have part of him be with the earth that she knew. The dawn she returned to Greenwood, she hacked the bark from a birch log, pliant from the constant mist, and made an unapologetically simple box. She placed only one thing inside-a lock of Kíli's hair. She paced the forest awkwardly at first, unsure of where to lay it. She went to the thick of the wood, where they'd first met, but it was too dark, too difficult to mark. She walked to the clearing in which many of the elves would meditate and take in sun or starlight, but it was too public. In the end, she buried it on the river bank, just beyond the fortress walls.

Imagining Thorin's company escaping in old mead barrels made her smile, though it was a smile rummaged from underneath anger and grief. She made the box by her own hand, and so she did the grave. Afterward she felt relieved. She marked the grave with a small sphere of white marble. She was going to be fine. Probably.

She looked up at the Greenwood fortress and the imposing figure it cut against the tiny grave. Thranduil had officially rescinded his decree of her banishment, but could not look her in the face since the battle. Which was just as well-there were so many things she wanted to say about the moments just in the wake of Kili's death. But at present, she didn't have the wherewithal to unpack any of that, and she suspected that neither did Thranduil.

She walked aimlessly until midmorning, nibbling on roots and nuts she'd come across. She was tired, but feared what dreams might come if she did sleep. She returned to her quarters, at last, to nap. She would need to be rested for the evening patrol at the very least, and she dreaded even the possibility of receiving a spit of pity from any of the guard. She climbed the narrow stairs to her section of the women's tower and slipped into her room, avoiding any laughter or movement from the open common areas.

She closed the door softly and turned to face the interior. A long thimble of rain collected in the dip of the vaulted glass ceiling, and her bed linens were unmade. She'd been in the middle of fletching a new quiver of arrows, and feathers were absolutely everywhere. Kíli would laugh, and say they looked like-

She'd been clenching the runestone, and it was wet in her hand. She turned it over and over, thinking of exactly how warm it'd been when he closed her hand around it. His hands were small and dense. His lips were pink and tight. His hair was curled and soft. His eyes were brown and deep.

She lay down. She probably slept. She got up, and collected the finished arrows. She sharpened her knives, like she did every afternoon. Once she replaced the whetstone she set the the runestone down next to it. She thought better of that, and placed it instead on the sill above her bed. This was as close as she'd ever get, ever again. She armed herself and left the room.

* * *

><p>The patrol was fine. Perhaps the spiders retreated to the northeast for the time being, having lost their source of power. Not one of the other eleven guardsmen said a word to her about the Battle of the Five Armies, and it suddenly occurred to her that there was no way for them to know. She was alive, and to them, that was enough. What did they care of mortality?<p>

Morwen noticed first. "Tauriel. Walk with me to the great hall?"

She nodded as normally as possible, but her movements still felt mechanized. Morwen was as lithe as the rest of the Silvan guard, though shorter. It made her self-conscious at times, but her desire to become an officer in the guard outweighed her insecurity by far. She liked Morwen because she was a good fighter and good fun. They arrived at the hall, and Morwen turned sharply down the corridor that led to the kitchen and larder.

"I won't subject you to anyone else's company but my own," Morwen said, brusquely leading the way down the stairs to the cellar. "We're getting as much food as we can carry and running quick as we can to your rooms to eat in peace. Mind the wine, would you, Tauriel?"

She felt the necks of two flagons being thrusted into her hands. She laughed, and Valar, it felt good. Ordinarily, there wouldn't be anything beyond greens, fruits, and lean meats in the kitchens, but as there had been so many losses in the battle a fortnight before, Thranduil decreed a celebration of those dead returning to walk among the stars for all time.

Thus, procuring several plates of assorted cakes, candied nuts, three smoked fish, vines of fragrant grapes and plums, and a rather plump summer pheasant was all in a day's work for Morwen and her accomplice. When all necessities were accounted for, the pair stole up the tower past other elves already careless and merry, giggling maniacally as they did the first time they'd stolen several cups of mead as children.

Slinging the food haphazardly to the floor, they collapsed breathlessly for a moment, and then, as was tradition, gathered the few linens and pillows together and began to construct a tent-but not just any tent:

The Tent of Absolute and Total Secrecy Under Which a Treatise of Non-Judgemental Listening is Observed.

Morwen had created The Tent of Absolute and Total Secrecy Under Which a Treatise of Non-Judgemental Listening is Observed a few hundred years prior, when they'd agreed to be each other's confidants and defenders/accomplices in piracy or other hijinks until the world's completion. Tonight, they constructed the tent with some sense of urgency, as if there may not be enough time to reveal everything that needed revealing.

"Right," said Morwen, stuffing an elegant pastry into her mouth. "Ee nee oo ea' 'irs. 'En ee 'awk, 'ess?"

She nodded, and picked up wedge of cheese. She realized how hungry she really was. She took a large bite out of the wedge and chewed, anticipating the sharp-and-sweet flavor to be of some refreshment, but she then thought-

She no longer tasted anything. Her stomach was soured by the thought of what the living do while the dead cannot-the clear brutality of _ceasing_, and she began to cry, not just for Kíli and what they could have been, but for Kíli and what he could be no longer. She swallowed dryly and took another mouthful, this time of pheasant, and ate to stopper her sadness.

"Oh Tauriel, _an ngell nîn_. This is The Tent of Absolute and Total Secrecy Under Which a Treatise of Non-Judgemental Listening is Observed. What happened? I've heard so many garbled strings of nonsense about what happened to those dwarves on Ravenhill. We can talk, if you want to talk."

She looked down at her hands for some time. Then, she pulled herself up and walked to the sill. She picked up the runestone, fingering the carvings, and sat back down. Morwen reached for an elderberry pastry and held it out to her, which she took with her free hand.

Tauriel began.

* * *

><p>The story ended with a thin gray line, the last she'd seen on etched onto his mausoleum inscription which read:<p>

_Here rests Kíli, youngest of Dís, sister-son of Durin_

_One star for all nights_

_Fresh earth for one soul_

_How brave are we ever_

_In the truth of the bone_

"Bone. Bones are real, Morwen. You subtract everything else, and then there are bones," Morwen's face crumpled, and she held Tauriel's hand all the more tighter, in lieu of words. Tauriel was become exhausted by her own trembling and effort to suppress the raw, primal emotions cresting inside like an angry sea. "It-what if nothing's left in this life or the other? What if I can't recognize him if I die? What if I don't die? I don't have anything, I buried it all-why did I bury him? Why didn't I sit with him in that tomb until it's all over?"

Tauriel sobbed, screamed, and vomited. She was drunk, and everything was awash in weak starlight. Morwen sat with her, in The Tent of Absolute and Total Secrecy Under Which a Treatise of Non-Judgemental Listening is Observed, until she whimpered, until she slept.

Tauriel woke up alone and nauseous, which she was grateful for-Morwen knew her well enough to let her gather herself alone. The skylight irritated her, as did the sticky, saltiness of her clothes. She went to her basin and splashed the stale water onto her face. Midday, probably. Luckily, her patrol was set for evening.

She considered rolling back into bed, but she couldn't stand the smell of her own shameful sadness. _You're the damn captain of the guard, _she thought, _hold yourself together._ She pulled on her boots, thrust the runestone into her pocket and headed for the dungeons. One thing remained, she thought.

* * *

><p>She stopped just in front of his empty cell, after relieving the somewhat unnecessary guard of his post-prisoners hadn't been held since Thorin's company had noisily passed through. She pushed open the metal bars and crouched down, crawling inside. Feeling a little self conscious about sitting in an empty prison cell, she thought back to the conversations they had those nights. She thought of the firemoon, and her heart ached, as if stretched out to take up more space. Rubbing the runestone between her hands, she felt better, as if she were evoking something lost. Kíli's smile etched into her mind made her bite her lip.<p>

"_Amrâlimê," _she said to the darkness.

Tauriel sat for as long as she possibly could-at some point, someone would come looking for her, and if they found her like this… Thranduil wouldn't be this lenient, even under these circumstances.

As she rose up to crawl back out, she noticed she'd been sitting on a large swathe of dirt. _Excellent_, she thought, rolling her eyes. _Valar damned, I suppose I'm dirty already._ She glanced furtively at the spot and noticed that it wasn't just clumps of dirt. It looked quite a bit like a map.

"_Agoreg vae*, _Kíli," she said with a half smile.

A/N: It's angsty-and it's gonna go some weird places, but I think my goal here is some Southern Gothic-esque magical eventual romantic stuff without getting too crazy one way or the other. I cross check a lot of Tolkien refs, but damn, I make _a lot_ of stuff up, but if you're here for the Kiliel, that's probably hip to your jive anyhow. I got a lot of free time, so updating again this weekend. Hope it helps fight off the BOTFA sads.

*Well done.


End file.
